


give birth among ruins

by peachyteabuck



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Possessiveness, allusions to Christianity-related religious shame, dubcon-ish, mentions of breeding kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29023395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: part three of survive the summer, sequel to hungry for me.
Relationships: Thor/Reader
Kudos: 11





	give birth among ruins

You make your way into the kitchen, wringing the fabric of the robe’s tie in your hands as if it were a rosary and you hadn’t ignored every single prayer your mother had attempted to make you memorize with the determination of a wild horse caught by rope. The afternoon sun does nothing to calm your racehorse heartbeat, the signs of time passing doing nothing to dull your senses as you grip the edge of the kitchen table until your fingers feel numb.

You’re not sure how long you stand there (certainly not long enough for the sun to set fully and wholly), but at some point, Thor comes behind you and wraps his large arms around your face.

“What’re you thinking about, sweet girl?” he murmurs.

You give no reply except a small _mmm_ , which only serves to act as acknowledgement of his arrival. For whatever reason, your brain runs rampant with emotion, but your mouth produces a dearth of words.

“Nothing to say?” he rumbles, obviously more enthralled and amused than annoyed. You wonder if he could ever be annoyed by you, if there was a button you could push or switch you could flip to make him snap like worn leather. It’s not that you’re scared of him – quite the contrary, actually – rather that you want to watch his own spitfire ways meet yours in a show of force that would define generations to come.

Another _mmm_ is repeated, just as plain as the last one. Thor seems to understand what it means, what it represents. You’re glad he doesn’t continue to push you, to pock and prod until your speech comes out jumbled and your eyes flow with tears that have nowhere to go but down your cheeks. The silence settles like dust, and you have no intention of sweeping it from the shelves.

A beat passes before Thor takes a single step back from you, another passing before you feel a hand on your shoulder and you’re flipped around to face him.

He the moves to hold your face with both hands, swallowing your field of vision and blocking her escape routes. The both of you know you’re not trapped, though. Not only would the man in front of you never dream of keeping you in a cage, he’d never trap nor ensnare you like some beaver or bear. He’s not here to harvest you for consumable parts – whether he himself intends to tan your hide or sell you to man who would for him.

To him (maybe for the first time in your entire life), you are neither good nor service. You neither thing nor object. You, here, are wholly and undeniably human, even if you are his.

“I’ve been breaking in horses since I was old enough to stand,” his thumb moves just a little over your bottom lip, his callouses rubbing into the bitten skin. “If I can handle a stubborn mare, I can surely handle a stubborn girl.”

You raise a single eyebrow and move your head back enough so that his hand is now touching nothing. Still, your eyes stay in a steady lock with his. “But can you handle a stubborn woman?”

It takes a second, but Thor’s lips quickly turn up into a smirk as he begins to understand. “I think I can manage.”

Another second or two passes as you watch each other – eyes locked as you both attempt to decipher who is predator and who is prey. Maybe here, in this room, in this house, each of you are both and neither at the same time. Here, you are on equal footing.

And here, you allow Thor to nudge you back to bed and onto your back. It’s a quiet, wordless exchange, the punctuation being his steady, calloused hands placing themselves over your bent kneecaps, your feet left over the end of the bed to dangle.

“You’re so soft,” he tells you. It’s not a question, not something up for debate. It is a statement – one he feels you must accept. “So soft for me.”

 _Soft._ His words ring in your ears like something had just dropped in the center of a silo that had been emptied. It’s not only loud and pulsing, but _painful_. You’d rather drop an entire barn on your big toe than hear that repulsive word, the single syllable weapon that leaves a copper taste on your tongue and a sick feeling in your stomach.

You had spent your entire life doing everything you could do to not be considered “soft.” From birth, pushed and worked and fought tooth and nail so that no one who had ever met you could describe you with such language one describes a pillow. When you’d imagined men calling you “soft,” you’d assumed your father would have shipped you off – maimed your spirit and left you for dead in the arms of whatever farmer would make the trek to the family home. The pinnacle of affection done onto you was to be ignored, to be allowed to go about your day and live your life on whatever terms you could control.

Somehow, it feels… _nice_ when Thor says it. Your inside feel warm like a biscuit just out of the oven, gooey and pliable under Thor’s rough hands. Maybe it’s because he’s not afraid to touch the fire, to navigate the racks and other foodstuffs in the oven to reach for the thing that melts on his tongue.

“So beautiful,” he whispers into your skin, lips soft and buttery against the lightning bolt marks on your thighs. “What a life I live, to have this beautiful woman laid out just for me.”

Part of you wants to scoff and push him away, pull your robe closer to you and scream at him to go back from whence he came. You want to bite and kick and protect yourself from the beaming smile of the man on his knees.

But, no matter how fragile those pieces of you remain, you continue to lay on the bed. You continue to lay, nearly, bare, under the heated gaze of a man who, days ago, you wouldn’t assume would give you the time of day.

He stands when his fingers meet the rough bottom hem of your robe, obviously unsatisfied with your state of modesty. Now he wishes to take his time, to see and experience every bit of you in full force. 

Slowly, as intricately as your mother used to mend the clothes that had been passed from child to child for generations, he unwraps you. The robe was never tied tightly enough to begin with, but he still navigates the bound fabric with the same care one holds newborn chicks, or freshly blown glass. He does not ask you to sit up, doesn’t attempt to remove the robe from under you. Instead, he merely exposes your body to the summer air before he begins to trail kisses down your body.

They’re slow, lazy, remind you of how every movement feels under the heat of summer. The gossamer sun leaves a veil over time, an epoch characterized by the slowing of movements until one is being outrun by a mere garden snail. 

He leans down to leave them between your breasts, under them, on the tops and peaks of them; he leaves them over rib, your stomach, your navel, your hips. He takes his time reaching your center – a man unburdened by the threat of the end of day, unpetrified of limited hours.

His broad tongue lays long, flat licks across your whole center, big hands keeping your hips still even as your thighs press against his ear; your brain melts out of your ears and onto the quilt you’d hand sewn as a child under the promise it would be passed onto your new husband. All thoughts dissipate into your nerves, each square inch of skin electrified as tender kisses are laid upon the same canvas just blessed with broad strokes.

You can feel his right shoulder shift under the backs of your thighs before you feel two fingers tracing at your entrance. It was still sore from the night previous, a fact Thor obviously understood as he softens each movement, handling you like one would an especially delicate flower. Just like such flora, he understands your fragile state and watches you for any signs of breakage.

No matter how dainty he treats you, your entire body very quickly feels of fire, streaks of blazing gold printing themselves across your muscles and under your skin.

“Jesus _wept_ ,” he moans, the vibrations making you shake borrowed from a newborn fawn. “You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on-“

A deep, shocked moan interrupts him, but he continues in his deathless pursuits to praise you.

“So lucky to be able to call you mine, to look at you and know that I can have you forever,” one steady hand continues to hold you on the bed as his other hand works in and out of you with expert precision, hitting that spot inside of you that makes your head snap back and eyes roll to the rear of your skull. “I’ll take good care of you; keep you safe and fed and fucked. Even if you don’t believe it now, I’ll make you know it eventually. I’m a man of my word, not one of those putrid _boys_ your parents promised you off to.”

He stands to his feet to press his forehead to yours, eyes forced to meet his as your breaths begin to sync with his.

“You don’t have to take me for what I am,” he growls. “I love a challenge from my mares and I wouldn’t expect anything less from a woman. How would our children grow to be as strong as me if my bride didn’t save the same tenacious spirit?” He becomes more focused, _determined_ , after his mentions of your future family. Actions more deliberate while retaining their feverish spirit. “You will bear my fruit and we will sustain our land _together_ , working that dirt until it reaps gold…”

You reach your peak the same way you jump from a tree branch to a river or creak or lake, whatever body of water was deemed appropriate for such activities.

_First you see the challenge – the height of the tree you’re perched in and the depth of the body of water you wish to be submerged. Your brothers would’ve measured it, even jumped first, determined not to lose a sibling to such a predictable and controllable situation. Despite their assurances of your safety, you worry._

“Th-Thor, I-“you try to tell him. He merely continues, even fastens his pace; the feeling of you tightening around him spurring his own heartbeat into quickening.

_Second you try to find the courage to jump. You’d done this before, had survived and thrived and felt the rush. Still, you feel fear as you stare down at the rippling water. It’s dark, an abyss, and you’re terrified of it attempting to swallow you whole. A small voice inside of you tells you that, even if it did, you’d let. You’d allow it to make you apart of the slipper green algae, a fixture for fish and turtles and frogs to gaze at as their own lives go uninterrupted._

Another gasp interrupted by a moan. Again, Thor continues.

_Third, you step closer to the end of the parts of the branch thick enough to support you. If you took one more step, you’d be thrown into the depths without any say from you. Part of you wishes it would happen, wishes the ability to choose whether or not to take the jump was taken out of your hands._

“I-I’m,” you try to speak once more.

“ _Shh_ ,” he whispers. “Sh, baby, don’t worry…I got you _…_ ”

_Fourth, you take the jump. You close your eyes and whisper a prayer and run off the edge of the world and throw yourself into the sky. For a moment, or many an eternity, you are suspended in a realm of nothingness that feels as close to Heaven as you’ll ever be – and nothing can touch you. Not God, not your father, not the expectations painted over you at birth. You are **free**._

A loud moan fills the room and seeps into the walls, making the whole house shake with your cries. Earthquakes and dust bowls and tornadoes have nothing on your loud cries, natural disasters wishing they could avoid _you_ as they try to find prairies to uproot and barns to collapse in on themselves, no matter their foundation or pillars’ attempts to keep them standing. 

_Fifth, you hit the water. You, a small mortal being with limited capacity, breach the water as elegantly as a horse knocked to its knees. Similarly, the air is knocked from your lungs – each crevice squeezed until oxygen had abandoned you. Withering to nothing, you are flattened._

Thor continues to fuck his fingers into your dropping core, his eyes focused on the sight of your sore cunt swallowing him over and over again.

“ _Mine,_ ” his whispers. “All mine.”

_Sixth, and finally, you emerge. The ice-cold water still stings you skin but the ethereal sunlight hitting your face makes it all work it. You have materialized as the opposite of miasma - untainted, unbroken, beautiful. You gasp for breath, desperate to reinflate your lungs after they were so rudely flattened. Maybe you haven’t been reborn, sinless with new skin and new eyes and new soul. Regardless, you are different than when you took your final plunge – the world sharper and clearer and brighter. The air you breathed in was not the same one you breathed out, and for that you consider yourself anew. Your heart pounds with the same intensity as the sun, thumping against your ribs as if it was trying to run away from you._

“Yours,” you mumble in return.

Thor’s mused hair forms a golden crown atop his head, his hands propped against the armrests of his throne that are your legs. “You believe me now?” he asks, soaked grin lopsided. It’s boyish, almost cute. If you had control of your arms you’d toss his hair with one hand, an act that would inadvertently initiate some sort of wrestling competition you’re sure you would win on sheer will alone. But no, you are broken in the best way possible – and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Breathless, your bones feeling hollow and worthless, you can barely cock your brow – let alone form some quip with your chapped lips and dry mouth. Honesty, however brutal, has been forced upon you. Unable to protest, your thoughts flow straight from your brain to your teeth. “Believe what?”

Thor stands up on sore legs, crawling onto the bed to lay on his stomach next to you. He turns his head to look at you, his face glowing as his smile reaches his eyes. “That you’re beautiful.”


End file.
